


Prove

by some_stars



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: (a little), (except at the end), (see notes for more), Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Crying, Explicit Consent, Facials, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Size Kink, This Is Not Soft, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, this is extremely self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:20:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24029515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/some_stars/pseuds/some_stars
Summary: In which Jaskier bites off more than he can chew, Geralt gets more than he bargained for, and everybody has a nice meal, eventually.(Working filename: "i want that twink obliterated.docx")
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 143
Kudos: 1789
Collections: Witcher Smut, wiedźmin





	Prove

**Author's Note:**

> This story leans much more toward the "explicit consent" tag than the "mildly dubious consent" tag, but if you want more information on the consent situation (short version: fully consensual, not quite healthy) and/or Geralt's headspace here, please see the notes at the end!
> 
> Thanks to [bourneblack](https://bourneblack.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr for the ending idea, and thanks to everyone on Tumblr and in the discord who offered encouragement! Also, I promise I really am working on all my non-porn WIPs (including the kidfic sequel, I swear). Porn is just so, so much easier.

He doesn't expect Geralt to say yes.

Well, technically Geralt doesn't say it. Technically Jaskier doesn't _ask_ anything. He just talks, because talking is what he does, and walking for hours alongside the quietest man he's ever met is boring and talking keeps him occupied. He's not sure if Geralt minds—after almost a week traveling alongside him, Jaskier still can't read him sometimes; a lot of the time. He's getting better at it, though, and he has no doubt that if he can convince Geralt to let him stick around another few weeks they'll soon get on famously.

It's a song, actually, that starts it. He's idly strumming his new lute as he talks, because he hasn't been able to keep his hands off it since he got it. It's a gorgeous thing, delicately carved and inlaid, and he's pretty sure it's at least a little magic, because he hasn't had to tune it once. But strumming leads to humming, which leads to singing a love song he'd written a couple months ago, right before leaving Oxenfurt. It's a pretty tune—nothing that will shake the foundations of the musical world, but he's proud of it, and when he'd sung it for Olanna on their last night together, she'd kissed him furiously before the last word was even out of his mouth.

"Ah, she was a lovely girl," he says, "and so generous with her affections. Truly, my heart split nigh in twain to leave her." That's something of an exaggeration, but she _had_ been great in bed, and after two months of wandering celibacy he certainly misses that.

And then somehow—he's going to blame Geralt's very loud silence, which really throws off his conversational rhythm—he starts talking about just how much he misses it. "Two months! Two months with nary a touch but my own hands. I can do a lot of things with my hands, but it's just not the same, you know?" He sighs. "I suppose it's not such a long time, really, but for a man of my prodigious appetites, I don't mind telling you, it's been torture."

He hears a small snort from Geralt. It's a pleasant break from the silence.

"What about you?" Jaskier asks, now that he has his participation, and also because he's genuinely curious. "I know it must be a lonely life on the road, but you're handsome enough you've probably got people lining up for one-night stands when you want them."

The silence abruptly returns even louder, and Jaskier realizes he's just asked Geralt about his sex life. On the sixth day of their acquaintance. In fairness, back at Oxenfurt this sort of conversation tended to come not long after the introductions, but he's in the real world now. With _Geralt,_ who doesn't seem the type to tolerate such impertinence.

Jaskier blushes and hopes Geralt won't look at him. He doesn't, only stares straight ahead as he says in a flat voice, "Folks don't trust witchers. The last thing most people want is to fuck one."

Jaskier has been travelling with Geralt not quite a week, but he already feels himself bristling on his behalf. "That sounds rather short-sighted of them," he says. "I certainly wouldn't turn you down."

The words aren't even all the way past his lips when he realizes that now he's _flirting_ with Geralt. His face grows even hotter, enough that Geralt can surely see it when he looks down at him, face blank as ever, and raises his eyebrows slightly.

"I mean," Jaskier says quickly, "if you—if you asked, you know, if you were interested, which I'm not saying you are. I mean, that would be pretty presumptuous of me. I don't even know your type. I don't even know _my_ type, to be honest, because I was never into big beefy guys before, but now, uh. Uh. Which isn't to say...I'm into...but I'm not _not_ into, uh—"

"Quiet," Geralt says, looking away from him and back at the road. 

"Excuse me?" Jaskier says, a little indignantly. All right, he babbles sometimes, but it doesn't mean Geralt gets to just order him to shut up.

"My type," Geralt says. "It's quiet."

"Oh," Jaskier says, feeling like he's been suddenly knocked off-balance. "Well. Okay."

He walks on in silence, but he can't stop thinking about it. Did he really just come on to Geralt? It's not that he hasn't been thinking about it—he _has,_ constantly, in great detail, because the man is a god and it's been two months since Jaskier last got laid. He just hadn't thought he was going to do anything about it, because Geralt has shown not a single sign of affection or interest, beyond riding slow enough for Jaskier to keep up and sharing the food he hunts when they camp.

He didn't show any interest now, when Jaskier accidentally more or less propositioned him, so that probably closes the book on that. At least Geralt isn't the type to tease him about it, he thinks, and trudges on with an only slightly heavier heart. 

— 

When they reach the inn, Geralt ties off Roach at the post outside and goes in. Jaskier lingers a moment to give her neck a little scritch, which she tolerates warily. He _will_ get this horse to like him if it's the last thing he does. The apple core in his pocket goes a long way to softening her up, and he allows himself one last pat before following Geralt inside.

"—a room," Geralt is saying, and the innkeeper nods, then glances at Jaskier as he makes his way over.

"I think we've got one free with two beds," the innkeeper offers, but Geralt shakes his head.

"One is fine."

Jaskier's immediate—and reasonable, he thinks—assumption is that they're paying for their own rooms. He'd have been happy to share with Geralt and save a few coins, but he has more than enough to cover his own for tonight, at least.

Only then the innkeeper says, "Upstairs, end of the hall on the right," and Geralt turns to Jaskier and nods. Which, well, that's clear enough, he supposes.

Just to be sure, he follows Geralt back out to get his bag off Roach, and as Geralt leads her off toward the stable he says, "See you upstairs."

Geralt grunts. But it's not an angry grunt, just an acknowledgement.

Okay, so they're sharing a room. It doesn't mean Geralt wants to sleep with him. People share rooms, and beds, all the time. He could just be trying to save money.

Still, Jaskier heads up the stairs with a flutter in his stomach. He sits on the bed and carefully considers if he really _wants_ to sleep with Geralt. He's pretty sure he does—he's definitely attracted to him, and he's never had anyone like Geralt before. He hasn't had that many people, honestly—perhaps more than is typical for his age, because fucking around was almost the official pastime at the university, which is what happens when you fill a dormitory with teenagers far from home and no adult oversight. Geralt is undoubtedly far more experienced, though, and—fuck, might as well face it, he's _big,_ and he's strong, and he's been forcing Jaskier to confront some seriously intense new fantasies for six days now. 

His reverie is interrupted by Geralt's arrival, and he startles at the sound of the door opening. Geralt enters, puts his swords down on the table, and turns to look at him. Jaskier fights the urge to look away.

"You want to fuck," Geralt doesn't so much ask as tell him. His voice is devoid of seduction, not that Jaskier would really expect it.

He could say no. He's sure Geralt won't do anything if he says no.

He's slightly less sure Geralt will stop if he says no _after,_ but that's not exactly a deterrent. He's never fantasized about that before meeting Geralt—about being overpowered, held down, utterly wrecked until he's begging—but maybe that's just because he's never met anyone who seemed so astoundingly designed to do it to him, or who he wanted quite this much.

"Yes, actually," Jaskier says, and is embarrassingly proud of how steady his voice comes out.

"Fine," Geralt says. "Take your clothes off."

At first he joins Jaskier in disrobing, unbuckling and removing his armor and boots. He stops there, though, and just watches as Jaskier, after an uncertain pause, strips down to his underclothes, and then steps out of those too.

He's been gazed at by lovers before—a few, at least—but it's usually while they're tracing reverent, hungry hands over his body, showering him with pretty words and soft touches. The way Geralt looks him up and down is just a simple appraisal, and it makes Jaskier shiver.

"Like what you see?" he makes himself ask, tilting his head in what probably looks like a parody of coquettishness, because he's not exactly at his best. But the effort must be made.

Geralt just grunts and starts unbuttoning his trousers, finally. "Get over here," he says. "On your knees."

It's very clearly an order, not a request, and apparently that's what it takes to overcome Jaskier's nerves and start his cock hardening. He hurries to comply, almost stumbling in his haste. 

Geralt huffs out a low sound that might be a chuckle. "Are you that hungry for it?"

Jaskier feels his face heat up, and he's about to retort with—something witty, or sexy—but then Geralt pulls his cock out, and Jaskier is, quite honestly, struck dumb.

It's not monstrous or anything. It's not even monstrously large, not really—a quick size comparison reassures Jaskier that it's definitely smaller than his forearm. It's just not smaller by as _much_ as one might hope. It is, without question, the largest cock he's ever seen, and it makes his jaw ache just looking at it. He licks his lips, swaying forward, but stops at the last moment to look up at Geralt.

Geralt's face is almost blank, but there's a hint of something in the corner of his mouth, in those implacable golden eyes. Jaskier thinks it's amusement, and that, more than anything else, decides him. 

He's going to give this asshole the best blowjob of his _life._

He gets his mouth around the head without too much trouble, though it's the kind of stretch he can tell will be uncomfortable soon. He spends some time there, trying to get used to it, sucking gently and swirling his tongue back and forth. The smell, too, is something to get used to. Geralt doesn't smell foul—he'd bathed in Posada, Jaskier had seen to it with his newfound coin—but he smells heavy, somehow, dark and rich. It's an overwhelmingly masculine scent, and musky, and decidedly _adult_ , unlike any of the fellow students Jaskier had tumbled with before. Jaskier's pretty sure _he_ doesn't smell like that. He wonders what he does smell like to Geralt, with those famously enhanced senses.

The thought of Geralt _smelling_ how much he wants this sends a bolt of heat all through him, and without even meaning to he sinks his lips down a little further, filling his mouth even more. Geralt's cock is huge and heavy on his tongue, and he's not sure if he'll be able to take the whole thing. For a minute or two he bobs up and down, steadying himself with one hand around the base—though the realization that his fingers can't quite encircle Geralt's girth is anything but steadying.

The first touch of Geralt's hand in his hair is practically gentle. Soon enough, however, it turns into a steady pressure. Jaskier thinks for a second about resisting—he's honestly not sure if he's ready to take more, or if he ever will be, for that matter. 

But fuck it, he wants to try. With a choked-off whimper he gives in and lets Geralt push him down and—fuck—hold him there, nose buried in dark curls as his throat spasms and clutches around the intrusion. It's so thick he can't breathe, and he's pretty sure that realization shouldn't make his cock jump the way it does.

Above him, Geralt is breathing a little harder. Jaskier's pulse is pounding in his ears, but he holds still and chokes quietly on Geralt's cock until, after some unknowable length of time, Geralt's fingers tighten in his hair again and pull him back up to gasp for breath. 

Either he's passed some kind of test, or Geralt takes pity on him; the next time Geralt shoves his head down he only keeps him there a few moments, just long enough for his lungs to start sounding the alarm. It goes on like that for a while, Jaskier choking and gasping in turn as he scratches weakly at Geralt's hips, which are still fucking _clothed._ He loves sucking cock—he got quite good at it at Oxenfurt—but this is something else entirely. Geralt doesn't care about his skill, or the clever things he can do with his tongue. He just wants a wet hole to fuck, and it happens to be Jaskier.

It's not what he wanted, exactly. But it's working for him anyway, enough that he moves to wrap one shaking hand around his cock. He doesn't even get a single stroke in before Geralt's nails dig painfully into his scalp.

"No," he says, voice like iron, and Jaskier can't hold back a muffled groan as he lets go. Geralt pulls him all the way off, then, and he's confused for a second until Geralt says, "Close your eyes," and starts to stroke himself, fast and rough.

Jaskier closes his eyes, mouth falling open, and listens. A sharp indrawn breath is the only warning he gets before the first slap of Geralt's come on his face. It's everywhere—his cheeks, his eyelashes (glad he closed his eyes, good advice there), and when some lands on his parted lips he can't hold back a moan as his tongue flicks out to taste it.

There's an answering growl from Geralt that makes Jaskier's skin prickle with how much he wants to get fucked _now._ He's almost disappointed Geralt came on his face, because surely they'll have to wait a little while now; he has no real idea how old Geralt is, witchers being what they are, but he's obviously no callow youth.

A corner of bedsheet is stuffed into his hand and he wipes at his eyes. He almost wipes the rest of it off too, but the thought of Geralt fucking him just like this, with Jaskier still covered in his spend, seizes his hand. Geralt, of course, notices.

"You like wearing my come?" Gods, if his voice were any lower it'd be on the floor. Jaskier blinks slowly, then opens his eyes, and whatever seductive rejoinder he was about to attempt dissolves into thin air when he sees that Geralt is still fully hard.

It must be a witcher thing, he thinks semi-deliriously as Geralt hauls him to his unsteady feet. His gaze drops to Jaskier's erection, standing tall and eager and red against his belly, and Jaskier fights an obscure urge to hide. He's _supposed_ to be getting off on this. 

Or maybe he isn't—maybe this is Geralt's way of trying to chase him off. _Yeah,_ he thinks, _good luck with that._

"Gonna fuck you," Geralt announces, and then two huge hands are spanning his waist and his stomach just about flips inside out with a mixture of instinctive fear and unbearable arousal, as Geralt picks him up and tosses him onto the bed, exerting no apparent effort as he does it.

"Oh, fuck," Jaskier croaks, staring up at him as he closes in. "How are you so fucking _big?_ "

Geralt smiles at that—the tiniest of smiles, wouldn't even count as a smile from someone with a normal range of facial expressions, but on Geralt it's unmistakable—and Jaskier feels a ridiculous surge of pride.

"Turn over," he says, and Jaskier clambers eagerly onto his knees and elbows. He sort of wanted to watch, but this is good too—the hulking, heavy presence of Geralt behind him, the way his skin tingles as he bows his head and waits to be touched.

He hears fabric rustling and feels a pang that he can't watch Geralt undress. Next time, maybe—and then the mattress settles behind him and Geralt's big hands spread him open, and his thoughts scatter to the four winds.

"Pretty," Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier almost goes cross-eyed trying to think of the appropriate response to having one's asshole complimented. Besides burying his face in the pillow, because he's got that covered.

He hears—fingernails on glass, and then a moment later something slick and firm presses against him, seeking entrance. It's not nearly big enough to be Geralt's cock, but fuck, how had Jaskier not noticed how thick his gods-damned _fingers_ are?

"Relax," Geralt tells him. Jaskier scowls, knowing Geralt can't see it.

"I have done this before, you know," he says, but Geralt is right, he's tense. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, and just like that Geralt's finger slides in. He doesn't go deep, just enough to give Jaskier a bit of a stretch to get used to, something to relax around. 

He's always liked this part, and usually he's in no rush to move ahead. If Geralt plans to fuck his ass anything like the way he fucked his mouth, he's certainly going to need some preparation. But he finds himself impatient, pushing back onto Geralt's fingers, whining for more. He doesn't want Geralt to be careful with him—doesn't want him to feel like he has to be.

"Just _fuck_ me," he says finally, heart racing in his chest. "Just—do it, come on."

Almost as soon as the fingers withdraw he feels the blunt, wet head of Geralt's cock nudging against his hole. Geralt doesn't tell him to relax, this time, just pushes in, and in, and in. He's moving slowly, but it's not quite slow enough. Maybe nothing would be slow enough, because—fuck _all_ the gods—he feels even bigger than he looks. Jaskier can't move, can't speak, can't do anything but lie there panting and trying to relax his muscles as Geralt spears him so unbelievably open.

It seems to last forever; every time Jaskier's convinced that has to be the last of it another inch slides in, until finally Geralt's hips come to rest against his ass. Jaskier can't quite process the idea that the entire thing is _in_ him. He feels dizzily triumphant, sweat prickling up and down his back as he gasps for breath.

Geralt, because he is the very soul of courtesy, gives Jaskier about ten seconds to get used to it before he starts to fuck him. It's not the brutal pounding he half-feared, half-craved, at least not yet, nor is it particularly gentle. Mostly it's just steady, and deep, and really fucking good. Jaskier's erection had wilted a little as Geralt entered him, but it's perking up again now, almost fully hard. He wraps a hand around himself and moans loudly as he starts to stroke, because it's the first time anybody's touched him all night and it feels so _fucking_ good.

He gets in three good strokes before Geralt grabs his wrist and pins it to the bed. Jaskier struggles against his grip and gets absolutely nowhere.

"What the fuck," he says, breathless, because Geralt is still fucking him and breath is hard to come by.

"You want to come?" Geralt's voice is almost a growl.

Jaskier tugs his wrist again hopelessly. "Was that not obvious? _Yes._ "

"Come on my cock, then," Geralt says. "If you like it so much."

Heat floods his face and a noise slips out of his mouth that sounds like Geralt's just gut-punched him again. He's never—not with someone else, only on his own fingers by himself. It always seemed too exposed somehow, too—hungry, to let someone bring him off that way.

He knows how to do it, though. With a deep breath, he arches his back a little more, tilting his hips until Geralt's cock finds the right spot. "Fuck," he gasps, "okay, yeah..."

Geralt's hands return to his hips and hold him tightly in place as he drives home again and again, sending bursts of lightning up Jaskier's spine with each thrust until it's almost too much. He can't shift out of Geralt's grip, though, and anyway he's almost there, almost, he just needs—

The next thrust does it and his voice cracks as he cries out wordlessly. Geralt fucks him through it, Jaskier's hole clenching wildly around his thick length as he spills all over the sheets beneath him. It goes on for a while, each impact to that place inside seeming to force more out of him, until he finally goes limp in Geralt's grip, shaking all over, and Geralt stops moving, though he stays buried deep inside.

Jaskier tries to breathe, and after a few seconds he manages it. He feels soft and raw all over, the threadbare sheets against his face wonderfully rough and stimulating.

He's not quite ready for the long, withdrawing drag of Geralt's cock and it makes him shudder, sliding out and out for what feels like forever until his aching hole flutters around the tip. Just as he breathes out finally it slams home again, and then again, fast and hard, and Jaskier moans into the pillow as Geralt finally fucks him with what feels like all his inhuman strength, but probably isn't, since Jaskier's hips aren't actually broken.

He braces himself for plenty more of it—Geralt's already come once, and he surely doesn't lack for stamina—but it's only another few minutes of pounding before he hears Geralt's breathing start to hitch unevenly, and his rapid pace picks up even more. He comes not long after, with a single low grunt, and Jaskier pants into the sudden stillness, dazed and exhausted and, to be honest, a little disappointed.

That ends about a minute later, when Geralt pulls out and flips him over—taking no great care not to jostle him unduly—and Jaskier finds himself staring at Geralt's still-standing erection, slick with oil and his own seed, looking not in the least satisfied.

"Holy fuck," he says, pushing himself up and reaching out for it in frank awe. "How many times can you come?"

Geralt pushes his legs apart and settles between them, and with one huge hand in the center of his chest shoves Jaskier back down flat. "Guess you'll find out," he says matter-of-factly, and bends Jaskier's legs up and back, folding him in half in a way he absolutely wouldn't be able to achieve if he hadn't come once already. "Hold them there," he instructs, and the way he's looking at Jaskier...yeah, it's a challenge.

Jaskier's not sure what it's going to take to convince Geralt he's not about to back down, but he's by gods committed now. It's a little tricky to grip his legs, sweaty as he is, but he manages, and gives Geralt the most challenging gaze in return that he can manage in his current position.

The only acknowledgement he gets is the burning stretch of Geralt entering him once more. It's hardly any easier than the first time; Jaskier is panting a little frantically by the time Geralt's cock slides fully home. 

He feels, if it's possible, even fuller than he did before. He's a little sore already, in that way where it feels good now but definitely won't later. _Best enjoy the moment, then,_ he thinks, and says, "Come on, fuck me already," only the slightest tremble in his voice belying his smirk.

He's not sure what he expects, provoking Geralt, but what he gets is a smirk in return and a hard snap of Geralt's hips as he starts to thrust. Jaskier lets his head fall back and his mouth fall open, and lets himself just _take_ it. He can't push back into it, folded up like this; can't roll into the impact or even squirm in any effective way. The only thing he can do, and the only thing he does, is lie there and dig his nails into his thighs to hold on and make a series of truly embarrassing noises as Geralt fucks him. 

It's more, just _more_ than any kind of sex he's ever had before, and it's the kind of good that he's not sure he can take much more of, but fuck, it _is_ good. Even better when Geralt's hands on his hips tilt him back a little, changing the angle so that his cock brushes that perfect spot inside on every stroke. 

"Oh gods," he gasps, "yeah, yeah, _fuck_ ," as his cock starts to stir again. 

"Touch yourself," Geralt orders, which is certainly a change of heart, but Jaskier's not going to argue. He wraps his right hand around his half-hard cock, letting his leg fall over Geralt's shoulder, and does his weary best to stroke himself in time to Geralt's thrusts, sinking into his fist as Geralt's cock plunges deep into him. It works for a while, but then he needs to go faster, and it's around then that everything starts to go fuzzy. It's all just sensation, his ass and his cock and his heart pounding in his chest, so that he doesn't even notice Geralt is coming again until he hears the strangled shout and feels the dim burst of heat inside. Fuck, he's going to be so _full_ , it's going to be dripping out of him as soon as Geralt pulls out—which is the image that pushes him over the edge, and he comes with a whimpered _please_ , not even knowing what he's begging for.

As he trembles through the last of it, he feels Geralt slow and then still, and a surge of exhausted warmth spreads all through him, because surely this must be the end. Geralt may be a witcher, but he's still a man, and three times in a row is enough for any man.

He grimaces as Geralt pulls out, leaving a bruised emptiness behind. When he opens his eyes, though—

"You're fucking joking." His voice rasps in his throat. "You cannot _possibly_ —not still—" He stares at Geralt's glistening, proud erection and sort of wants to cry. "Geralt, I _can't._ "

"One more," Geralt says, and it's...probably a suggestion, not a command. Probably. Jaskier's honestly not sure which one he'd prefer, at this point.

"I...fuck, Geralt..." He could say no. He could say, _No, stop, I really can't,_ and Geralt wouldn't force him. He's sure of that now.

"Had enough?" There is, if Jaskier is not mistaken, just a hint of warmth in his voice, and his grin is almost playful. Playful like a wolf, or a tiger, maybe. Something with sharp teeth.

Jaskier wraps his legs around Geralt's waist and pulls him in. It's not much of a pull, because his legs are currently jelly, but it's clear enough. "I will tell you," he says deliberately, "when it's enough."

When Geralt's cock breaches his battered hole once more he whimpers, a high, helpless sound, and thinks, _Okay, fuck, maybe it's enough,_ but something holds him back from actually protesting. Some part of him that wants to find out just how much he can take, and if it even comes close to how much Geralt can give. 

That's apparently not the part that controls his eyes, though; he feels the tears coming but can't even begin to stop them. It hurts, is the thing—and it's satisfying, it's _good,_ down deep good in the corner of his mind that's been longing for Geralt to pick him up by the scruff and give him a good shake since he first saw him. But fuck, he's so gods-damned sore even so.

The pace is slower now, measured and almost deliberate. When he starts to cry Geralt pauses, a frown shadowing his face as he waits in silent question.

Jaskier gathers up all his courage, and all his pride, and all the fantasies he's entertained over the past week of Geralt just, like, _destroying_ him, and gasps, "Don't stop."

Geralt's eyes go dark. He reaches out and drags a thumb across Jaskier's face, beneath each eye, through the tears. It's shockingly gentle, and Jaskier gets the feeling that if he were a little less exhausted he could figure out what Geralt means by it. 

He is exhausted, though, so he just lies there, panting and utterly still, and stares up at Geralt with blurry eyes as he starts to fuck him again. Each impact jars another moan out of him, until the noise is just continuous, a ceaseless melody that he can't hold back. His whole body is blooming with heat, every sensation melting together into a thick haze of pleasure and pain, and for a while he just lives there.

When Geralt pulls out, he can only summon a querulous noise. But Geralt doesn't answer, just crawls further up his body until he's kneeling over his chest and starts to stroke himself again. Jaskier abruptly remembers that he's still covered in Geralt's first orgasm, and shivers at the promise of more. He gets it, soon enough, Geralt grunting out his finish and shooting all over Jaskier's chest and throat, a little on his chin. 

Fuck, he's a _mess._ He can already feel Geralt's come trickling out of his hole; he must be so stretched out down there, fucked open and sloppy and wet. The thought sends a satisfied thrill down his weary spine.

His eyes long to fall shut and he can feel himself drifting off, but he resists long enough to glance at Geralt's cock—which is softening at long last, thank the gods. With a sigh of pure relief, feeling not a little proud, he sinks back into the mattress and lets himself sleep.

He stirs some time later and finds that he's now curled up on his side, someone—Geralt, presumably—lying close behind him. He's not sure at first what's woken him, until he feels the thick fingers questing between his cheeks, circling his aching hole curiously. He flinches and groans. "Enough, _fuck,_ enough, I give, you win."

There's a second before Geralt stops where Jaskier, still half-dozing, wonders if maybe he won't—if the thumb sliding over his hole will push inexorably in, and in—if Geralt will just keep fucking him, keep using him, with Jaskier helpless to do anything against his strength but squirm and cry and beg.

He wouldn't. Jaskier knows he wouldn't. But the _idea_ is...not entirely unpleasant to imagine, and he files it away for later contemplation.

The fingers withdraw, and Jaskier hears a low, satisfied hum in his ear as he relaxes. "For _now,_ " he adds, yawning. "And, uh, probably for tomorrow as well. But not for good." He cranes his neck around to meet Geralt's eyes insistently. "You're not getting rid of me that easily."

There's a long silence. "No," Geralt says slowly, "I guess I'm not."

It's nice, having Geralt behind him like this. Jaskier relaxes back into him, soaking up his warmth like a cat in a sunbeam. For a minute he just lays there, listening to Geralt breathe and feeling rather good about himself.

Then he remembers that they didn't stop for lunch today, and he'd been pointedly looking forward to dinner before Geralt and his huge cock descended on him like a summer storm. "How long was I asleep? Is it too late to go get something to eat?"

"I brought some up while you were out," Geralt says. Now that it's been brought to his attention, Jaskier can smell the tantalizing aroma of grilled meat. He hadn't expected to get anything better than a bowl of vegetable stew, maybe with a little bacon for flavor—he did well for himself in Posada, but his pockets aren't exactly overflowing—and he grins at Geralt as he sits up, not even trying to hold it back.

"You are the very soul of generosity," he says. "A true patron of the arts."

The corner of Geralt's mouth twitches; he doesn't say anything, but Jaskier is getting very good at reading him. Getting up and walking to the table where the food waits isn't the most comfortable thing he's ever done with his body, but he's still pretty high—from the marathon fucking and from making Geralt laugh, or as good as—and he carries the plate back to bed with a light heart.

The steak is a bit tough, but he chews it contentedly, eyes falling closed with each bite as the rich taste of beef floods his mouth. Gods, he hasn't had this much meat in _weeks._

After a minute, he feels Geralt's eyes on him and looks up. Geralt's watching him with a mostly inscrutable expression that becomes less inscrutable when his gaze flicks down to the steak.

"You're hungry," Jaskier realizes. He cuts the steak in half while Geralt mumbles some denial that Jaskier ignores.

"I already ate," Geralt insists as Jaskier picks up the untouched half of the meat and tries to hand it to him.

"Obviously you didn't eat _enough,_ " Jaskier says, "since you're still hungry. Come on, take it, I won't eat it if you don't. Sorry I can't offer a fork and knife, but considering what you did to the rabbit we ate the night before last I doubt that's much of an obstacle for you."

He sits there, holding the half a steak out and waiting. Geralt can try to refuse all he wants; Jaskier's not going to back down. Finally Geralt grabs it with an exasperated sigh.

"I'll eat it if you take all the potatoes," he says, and doesn't wait for a reply before tearing off a chunk and swallowing it with barely a chew.

"My friend, you have a deal." Jaskier smiles and pops a piece of potato into his mouth. It doesn't make his whole body sing with joy the way the meat does, but it's a good potato. 

Geralt frowns. "We're not friends."

Jaskier rolls his eyes. "I suppose you'd prefer 'my very casual and temporary traveling companion who fucked the living daylights out of me and then bought me dinner'?"

He doesn't get a response to that, but then, he didn't expect one. 

The meat satisfies him, and the potatoes fill him up, and if he could have eaten a bit more—well, watching Geralt wolf down his portion of meat is a pleasure on par with eating it himself. By the time he finishes and lies back down, everything is really starting to ache. He'll be a disaster in the morning for sure, but he can't find it in himself to mind.

Geralt blows out the candle and lies down beside him, not quite touching, and Jaskier sleeps.

—

The next morning is exactly as much of a challenge as he expected it would be. His first thought upon waking is that he must have had too much to drink, but there's no nausea and no headache, and also he didn't even have anything to drink. He just feels like a wrung-out rag, mouth dry as a bone and every muscle singing a dissonant melody, sore in all the expected places and some he didn't know existed.

He allows himself one piteous " _fuck_ " before getting up with a wince and fetching his clothes. There's a huff of breath from Geralt, obviously amused.

"Yes, yes," Jaskier mutters, "behold your handiwork, O mighty witcher, thou hast wrecked mine ass most grievously. Now get me some water, I'm dying."

Geralt gives him a canteen and a solid pat on the back. "You're not dying."

"No comment on the wrecked ass part, I see," Jaskier says, and chugs the whole thing.

They eat breakfast downstairs—Jaskier opting to stand at the bar instead of sit—and neither of them says much. The anxious feeling that's hung in the air every morning since he joined Geralt, the worry that this might be the day Geralt finally sends him away, is absent as if it had never been there.

Jaskier doesn't fool himself that he's somehow captured Geralt's undying affection with one night of fucking, however vigorous. He still barely _knows_ Geralt, no matter how much it sometimes feels like they've been traveling together for years. But when he looks at Geralt now there's a door cracked open where it used to be shut, and Jaskier counts that a success.

He waits outside for Geralt to fetch Roach from the stable, enjoying the late spring weather—sky blue as anything, air fragrant with green stuff and flowers that almost drown out the smell of shit, piss, and garbage that floats up from the gutter outside the inn. All inns smell like that, probably, but Jaskier hasn't had occasion to stay in many before this one—yet. He has the feeling he's going to be doing a lot more traveling from now on.

Geralt returns leading Roach, not riding her, and wearing a suspiciously overt smile. "Why don't you ride today?" he asks, and now the smile has teeth. "You must be tired."

Jaskier stares at him for a long, long moment, and then says, with a great deal of feeling, "You're an _asshole._ "

"Just thought I'd offer." Geralt chuckles and moves to climb into the saddle, but Jaskier steps forward to block him.

"I didn't say no," he says, and lifts one foot into the stirrup. Getting up there is a bit of a feat and sitting down is something of a challenge, but he keeps a straight face until he's properly seated. He glances down at Geralt and is delighted to see him looking utterly nonplussed. Surprising Geralt is quickly becoming one of his favorite pastimes. 

When Roach starts walking he breathes in sharply, but the pace is slow and he gets used to it soon enough. He can feel Geralt watching him, and after a minute he says, sounding equal parts exasperated and fond, "You don't actually have to—"

Jaskier meets Geralt's eyes with his own lidded and seductive gaze, or the best version of it that he can manage. "I want," he says deliberately, "to remember how it felt."

It has the desired effect: Geralt stumbles over his own feet, swearing, and Jaskier watches as an intriguing pink crawls up his pale throat. Jaskier urges Roach a little faster, hissing as he starts to rise and fall with more force. He won't be able to keep this up much longer, but for the moment? He feels _fantastic._

"Do try to keep up," he calls over his shoulder, grinning wildly. Geralt adjusts his trousers and mutters something Jaskier can't hear.

It really is, Jaskier thinks, a _beautiful_ morning.

**Author's Note:**

> I generally don't explain the POV of the non-POV character but I feel like some people might prefer a window into Geralt for this one, so basically his line of thinking is, "How the fuck do I convince this vulnerable idiot that following a witcher around is a bad idea?", and ignoring him isn't working, and making him sleep outside and eat Geralt's shitty cooking isn't working, and then Jaskier comes on to him and the terrible plan to scare him off with sex is born (although they do both have a good time and it ends on a Soft note). The whole time he's just waiting for Jaskier to say "no," at which point he would stop; Jaskier just...doesn't, because he may be a barely legal twink but he knows what he's about.
> 
> (The questionable aspect to the consent is that Jaskier feels like he needs to prove something and pushes himself further than he otherwise might, but he doesn't do anything that upsets him.)
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://some-stars.tumblr.com/) for Witcher shitposts, WIP updates, occasional prompt fills, and just because I very much need people to talk to about this stupid, stupid show. :D? :D? Also if you would like to reblog this story, you can [do so here!](https://some-stars.tumblr.com/post/617322203898429440/prove-somestars-the-witcher-tv-archive-of)


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